Caged Birds Don't Sing
by Stained Blue
Summary: No free creature likes to be caged.


Title:Caged Birds Don't Sing

Disclaimer:Don't own Jack Sparrow or James Norrington, only this little story-thing…and I don't even really want that.  
Author Note:Set in the unknown time-span between the first and second movie.

Jack doesn't know much about birds; he does know that caged birds don't sing. They sit there and stare at you with blank, glassy eyes; sometimes they cock their head and listen to your voice, but they never reply. All caged birds have to do, to appease the one who holds the key, is sit there and look pretty. They draw in and grow silent, until their will to live eventually follows their voice—and fades away completely.

He does, however, know what it's like to be caged. It drives you crazy. To have freedom just on the other side of iron bars, so he does know. He understands what Norrington is going through, because the man made him go through the exact same thing. But with him, there had been a reason as to why the Royal Navy had picked him up; Jack had just seen Norrington and snatched him.

Is there really any surprise that the man draws into a terrifyingly silent prisoner? Jack knows not really. A better question would be why Norrington, a Commodore in the Royal Navy for God's sake, would've been hanging out in Tortuga. Why he would lower himself so much to the point of sitting in a ragged uniform coat mixed with plain clothes, in a noisy bar, filled with the vermin of the sea?

The question puzzles him, and Jack knows—tells himself—that's why he finds himself, once again, in front of the Commodore's cage. Blank eyes the colour of sea foam after a storm stare at him, long lashes flicker and Jack continues to stare. His pretty little bird, he can tell it's unwilling, but won't raise its voice. Food lays untouched on the floor of the small brig and out of the barred window, gulls can be heard.

Finally, eyes shift to the floor but other than that, Norrington doesn't move. "Tell me sumthin luv, ay?" No response, of course not…caged birds don't sing. "Why was uh respectin off'cer like your ownsy hangin roun Tortuga?" His pretty bird shifts on its dirty perch, straightening shoulders and making dirty plumage more apparent. Jack nearly winces; he knows the man must be loath to look the way he does. Naval officers just tend to be picky about their looks.

His fingers curl around the bars and he leans closer, pressing his face between two bars to stare at the man. Norrington's shoulders have risen and his head sunk, seeing the man in a stance like that—like a bird weathering a harsh storm—makes his fingers twitch. "Hey!" Eyes void of anything look up at him, but the stance is the same. "Talk tah me mate!" Those haunted orbs are about as clear as a glass in a seedy Tortuga pub, but they make him feel worse. So Jack leaves his little bird to sit on his perch, still looking so pretty even with his mussed up plumage streaked with mud and dirty water.

He resolves to not visit his bird anymore. To let the damned thing rot in its little cage and be destined to only see sunshine and waves through the window while he does so. The eyes continue to haunt him though. They won't leave him alone, and Jack refuses to admit why. Norrington's eyes haunt him because it is the look of a man who has known for quite some time that no one is going to rescue him. Jack knows he's never looked like that, that there was always someone there to save him.

That leads him to wonder why the Navy hasn't been searching for their lost lamb. After two months, he's seen neither hide nor hair of the Royal fleet, and only now does he begin to worry.

The questions mount in his mind and press against his heart until Jack's resolve crumbles into a foundation of curiosity. And so, he finds himself standing before the cage and staring at his lovely little bird. "'S been a long time." World-weary eyes lift, and shock the bloody hell out of him. He finds himself missing the little glint that turned Norrington's eyes from sea foam to jade, either in agitation or anger; but looking into the weary eyes of the young turned soul-old makes him miss the blank gaze.

"Where's ya mates? The little puppy tha foll'wd you roun…or the gov'nor?" The gaze just slides from his and Jack is willing to do anything to get the old Norrington back. He promises himself that the next time he sees young Will, he'll ask about the man.

But Elizabeth is there, and Jack doesn't really want to ask with her around. "Will…a moment, if you please." The lass huffs and stomps her foot. "Jack! You may NOT have a moment with Will; if you've something to say, it'll have to be in front of me." He looks over at Will, who shuffles his feet and stares at the deck.

"Alright." He draws himself up. "'S about Norrington." Colour drains from the fiery young woman, and Jack bites his lip to keep from smirking. "What of the Commodore?"  
"Where the bloody 'ell has he been?!" Will won't even look at him, and he knows it must be good. Even Elizabeth looks loath to disclose what he asks for. "Elizabeth, tell him." Jack turns his head from Will to Elizabeth, who is looking rather uncomfortable. He waits patiently for it.

"After he chased you after letting you go…he kind of disappeared for a month or so. Then one day, James just showed back up in his uniform, except it was ragged and he just looked—empty." Her head drops and she presses her hands to her face. "Whatever happened Jack," she lifts her head in a scared way with teary eyes, "it broke him. And I don't think he'll ever forgive himself for it."

As always, his little chat with the young couple is informative. He finds his feet moving of almost their own accord before realizing that his heart is pulling the strings, not his brain. Jack looks into the little cage, as his pretty but worn bird. He opened the door and steps in. His little bluebird flutters to the end of its perch and stares at him with flickering eyes. Something's hiding just below the murky surface. He holds his hand out, waiting patiently for his bird to move.

When his hand presses to an arm, all he can feel is bone. And then his bird is up in an awful hurry, before landing in a corner far from himself. "So ya quit." Jack allows his shoulders to slump and his hands dangle between his knees. "Jus like that, ay?" The silence stretches, and then wears thin and all Jack can think about is hearing his bird chirp. He wants to hear the soft tone with the careful accent that is his James.

He screams for Gibbs, and his bird presses itself further into its corner. But Gibbs comes, and has a couple of crewmembers haul Norrington to the mast. Jack follows slowly, praying his bird will do as he wishes; he forgets that birds, especially caged birds, are fragile little creatures.

As the first lash falls, shoulder blades jerk up and twist skin until James looks like a beaten angel with severed wings. The whip's kiss is vibrant and bloody against pale porcelain skin. Each whipping makes skin welt up and then, each following lash makes the small beads of blood smear and run. The man twitches, his body jerking and his fingers digging into his palms as he sways in the bonds at his wrists, holding him to the mast. He can hear his crewmembers snickering, and some openly laughing, as the great Pirate Hunter is whipped viciously by a pirate. He can hear Gibbs counting each lash under his breath, for the man is unwilling to go past thirty. But he can't hear his bird.

Thirty lashes given, and silently taken. The Commodore hangs limply at the mast, his frail frame pressing flush against the unyielding wood. Jack nods to the men and watches as his bird is carried away, back to his cage. Gibbs stands close to him, and all he can feel is the man's shame rising off him. "Caged birds don't sing, cap'n." Small, warm Caribbean rain begins to fall, to splatter the deck and wash away the little pool of a broken bird's blood.

The night wears on, and the rain ascends into a storm before he thinks of his pet again. Jack rushes down into the brig, anxious to hear his bird chirp. Silence greets him and spurs him onward. His little bluebird lies at the bottom of its cage, where his men dropped it. Little twitches make muscles flex in spasms and pull wounds taunt. He lets himself in and kneels behind his bird. His blood has stained his white shirt, and it looks as though his very heart is bleeding.

Pain-stricken eyes stare at him. Jack can see the Commodore, but not the Commodore he wanted. This is the Commodore when he let Elizabeth go…the one that made Jack feel ill at ease and want to lock his own heart away. He holds his bloody bluebird gently, cradled against his chest. "Little bird," he strokes James's cheek softly, and eyes close. Tired green eyes open, and Jack traces soft lips. "Pretty little bird—James—I always rooted for ya, even when ya chased me. 'Specially when ya chased me."

He presses a soft kiss to James's forehead, and watches as eyes halfway close before opening again as he moves back. Jack still hovers though, stroking the dirty blue plumage and the pale skin. "Speak for me…'splain what I's missin."

The cracked, hoarse voice isn't his James's. It's barely more than a whisper, but Jack hears him. He feels him too, when long fingers intertwine with his own bejeweled digits. "Love tends to break a man's heart…leaving them to spiral downward into loneliness and fear. You open the door and the bottom falls out, but a broken bird cannot fly and love in the wrong does not mend its wings."

And he watches his pretty little bluebird; broken and bloodied from his misuse, fall. The fingers clutch at his, and the russet breast of the Commodore's coat shudders slightly. "I die hard—yet am not afraid to go…if your love will follow." Jack closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that threaten to over flood his body. "Always." Sad eyes peer up at him, and a faint trickle of blood drips from softly curved lips.

Jack doesn't know much about birds; he does know that caged birds don't sing. They draw in and grow silent, until their will to live eventually follows their voice—and fades away completely. And when they go, after their wings have broken from the weight of their fears and they plummet into the darkness where only love can follow, they take your heart with them.

As his little bluebird slips and flutters towards the bottom of his beloved sea, so selfishly kept from his loving gaze, Jack feels his heart sink. He's burying the overly sensitive organ with the man he refused to acknowledge his love for, only to break his wings and still have the man snatch his heart from his chest.

He's tempted to leap blindly, to follow where the living cannot. Instead, he turns world-weary and soul-old to his cabin. He swallows the pain and hurt burning in his chest with rum. And he mourns the lost of his beautiful little bluebird.


End file.
